09-24-2017, 07:45 PM
if there's a light at the end, it's just the sun in your eyes
Finally, he sighs in relief as the tension in Tangerine's eyes ebbs away. Her laughter lingers pleasantly under the blooming stars and the young King smiles ever so slightly to himself. He turns his gaze away to keep the expression private, but then when he returns his amber eyes to the mare, she's shooting him a haughty glare from the side. It's his turn to laugh and he rolls his eyes playfully at her veiled threat. "I will be sure to prepare for it then," he throws back at the overo, playfully chomping his teeth together as she reaches out to nip him.
The growing blackness makes him feel like he can ask her anything, as if the inky blanket of night grants them a sort of protective cloak. His words are rushed, but he's confident in his inquiry, proffered like it will not etch a small bit of sadness into his heart if she should say yes. Amet had felt the tension between them the first time she had ventured into the inner sanctum of Hyaline; they'd wandered beneath the wisteria together, playful and bashful and all things naive. The memory warms him, yet makes him uncomfortable. In truth, he's thought only of Ciri for nearly an entire season. Tangerine's absence has always and will always be bitter, but the knowledge that she is with Warrick helps him to view their relationship as platonic and innocent, though in her presence he is reminded of the way he'd felt when she had first come to his home. She looks away for a moment, heavenward, and his breath catches.
Not Warrick's. Amet's brow furrows for the briefest of seconds in surprise, the tone of her voice catching him off guard. "Are you okay, mahal?" Her demeanor is different... sadder. The Dragon King's thoughts immediately drift to any possible worst case scenario and fury begins to rise in his chest, sudden and powerful. His muscles grow taut and his ears lay flat against his narrow head; the akhal-teke nearly bares his teeth but forces his quivering lips to remain over the blunted enamels, though his nostrils flare angrily in hopes to catch the scent of the offender.
"Did he hurt you?" he nearly growls, sharp amber eyes watching her every movement with growing concern. "Carnage..." Amet draws the word into a hiss, wracking his brain for any instance that he made have heard that name. He has heard rumors and myths only, but they are enough to hold onto. "The God. The one that made Pangea a wasteland."
"Did he hurt you?" Amet asks again, trying now to dampen his anger until he has an answer from the first equine he had ever called a friend.
Amet